End
by cornwallace
Summary: What is god? What is life? What is everything you've known and grown fond of? Ladies and gentlemen, I plan to find out.
1. Existence

"What is it, buddy? What's bothering you?"

"It's just... nothing. Nothing at all."

"Oh, come on. You can tell me."

"It's not a big deal, really. It's nothing you should worry about. Nothing I should bother you with."

"Nonsense. No problem is too small. You know that."

"Well, it's just that... What you did was so amazing, you know? What you've done for the world, the way you changed it. It makes my life seem so pointless."

"How do you mean?"

"I feel useless. I haven't brought anything to the table, so to speak. My existence is meaningless, and to tell the truth, it bums me out."

"Come off it, Tails. You know I couldn't have accomplished any of it without you."

"No. You're just saying that to make me feel better. My role in his downfall could have been filled in by anybody else."

"That isn't true, Tails. Hell, you're only seventeen, kid. You've done more with your life in these early years of your existence than most have with their entire lives. That's something to be proud of."

"Details mean nothing in one's shadow."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm nothing but a minor detail, lost in your shadow."

"Oh, man. Doing something like this for fame is the wrong way to go, pal. You changed the world, kid. You think that means nothing without fame? You're sorely mistaken. The fame doesn't matter."

"I guess you're right, Sonic."


	2. Numb

White.

Little color variation.

Every time I open my eyes to it, it stings.

Too bright.

It all sort of blends in.

White garb, white walls. White everything.

We are but floating heads and arms, in this purgatory.

I honestly can't imagine hell being much worse than this.

Forced to toil away in this meaningless existence.

The doctors call this progress.

Getting better.

Don't feel any better.

Feel numb. Chalk that up to the fact that the doctors keep us pumped full of drugs at all times. To keep us docile and weak.

It's hard to think through all of this mess.

Thoughts feel fragmented.

Broken.

It's hard to keep to a particular train of thought. My head's all over the place, these days.

Be looking out the window now, if it weren't for the fact that they boarded them up. The only thing we're allowed to see is artificial light. We exist in a world created by them. Even manage to take our imaginations, our dreams. And we can't leave until we've been shaped in their image.

Welcome to Scellon Hills; Institution for the Criminally Insane.

The headache's back. Grit my teeth. Cradle my head. Close my eyes, but the light bleeds through. Red. Veins. Discomfort.

My skin doesn't feel right. I wish I could crawl out of it and slink into a dark corner.

Collapse.

Oh, how I wish it were that easy.  
Oh, how I wish things could possibly be that simple.

The place is completely silent, save for the ticking of a clock we can't see. Not generally, anyway. It sits on the office wall of Doctor Abram, the top around here, you might say. You're only allowed in there once a week for private therapy. The rest of the week, it's group therapy, which is like being forced to throw out all your insecurities and deepest, darkest issues out like chum to a bunch of hungry sharks. They tear it apart, disregarding you, as means of feeling superior.

It's disgusting.

The best way to deal is to lie. Whine about something menial, like everyone else. Keep my problems to myself. That way, it's not me they're mocking unjustly. It's my representative.

Everyone's problems seem so pathetic. Trivial. It's hard not to get angry. It's hard to bottle it up. Ignore. Shut my feelings away. Try not to think about it. Sometimes I black out. Open my eyes in the middle of therapy. Freeze up. Sometimes everyone's staring and I don't know what to say. Conclude. Duck out. Embarrassment. Whatever. None of this matters.

Today is not group therapy day, so why does it come to mind?

No, today we see the clock.

Today I see the clock.

-

"The doctor is ready to see you now, Miles." Voice. Female.

Nurse.

The sudden break in the silence startles me, slightly. The ticking ever present. Almost faint enough to be inaudible, but it's not. It's constant, anywhere you go.

"Miles?"

Oh. Yes?

"The doctor will see you now," she repeats, marking something on her little notepad and stuffing the pen behind her ear.

Get up from my metal foldout chair and slowly make my way over to her. Very strict protocol, they have here. Best not to upset the way things are done. Penalty is worse than routine. Have to follow the nurse all the way to the office. Can't just walk myself. That would be one count of not following protocol. That's a red mark. Three marks is electro shock therapy. Nurse lady keeps red pen in her front pocket at all times. It's like a warning, in her shirt.

It's easy to get a mark here. Very easy.

Look at nurse lady wrong way, like you like her, and you get a red mark. Glance at her breasts, that's a red mark. Get too close to other patients, that's a red mark. Of course, a red mark is the least of your worries around here. God help the poor bastards caught masturbating, or having sex with one of the inmates. We never see those people again. Rumors circulate. Lobotomies. Had this friend, Mike. Caught in the bathroom having sex with one of the other guys. Didn't know the other one. Now, he's gone. For good. Poor bastard was just horny. Been in here for years nary a single release. Know what that does to a man? Not good for his head, I don't think. They could have at least let him finish. I think his brain is gone, now. There's no way to know for sure.

She leads me to the door and we stop. She knocks lightly on the door with her knuckles.

A muffled "yes?" from other side of the door.

Cracks the door open and pokes her head through. "Miles here to see you," she says.

"Ah, yes. Come in, come in," his voice bouncing off these white walls.

Turns back and gives me the signal to go on in.

Make way past, through the door. Sit down in chair before desk. Might as well be a dissection tray. Open me up, Doctor. Have a look at my insides. Then, as condescendingly as you can, tell me what's wrong with this. Please.

Apparently, I need this.

This is helping me become a better person. So I can contribute to society. Because that's what's important. We are fuel, we exist to be burned. Gas that doesn't get you anywhere is useless. Being salvaged, so I can be useful. So honored.

Time to kiss ass.

"Hello, Miles," he says in his usual bland voice, flipping through some files on his desk. Always keeping tabs on things. Marking down my every movement, every action. Every spoken thought. "How are you doing today?"

Doing okay, doc, I tell him. Hangin' in there.

"I'll be the judge of that," he says.

My fists are tightening. Stop. Breathe. Quietly. He simply cannot know how much that gets to you, Miles.

"We've been watching you," he says, closing his file, and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Very old white feline. Hair on head starting to thin out. I try to keep my eyes off it. "You've been doing good. Haven't gotten a red mark in quite some time now, have you?"

No sir, I tell him. I've been staying out of trouble.

"That's good," he says. "That's real good, Miles. I'm proud of you."

Thank you sir. I'm getting better, I think.

"You certainly seem to be. You have shown remarkable improvement since your arrival here, Miles. But sadly, due to your violent nature, I'm afraid we can't move you over to ward six. What we can do, however, is we can lower your medication dose, and get you a custodial job. You'll be monitored heavily, of course, but you'll be given the chance to prove yourself. We can't exactly give you something you can use as a weapon, so we'll have to start you off scrubbing toilets. How does that sound?"

That sounds good, sir. That sounds very good. Thank you for this opportunity.

"This is your last chance, Miles. If you don't mess this up, you could be out of here within another five years."

I won't let you down, sir.

"Good. Now, once the nurse gets here, she'll take care of your dosage," he says, pressing a button on his desk to call the nurse, and scribbling something on a piece of paper he has set aside. "Have a good day."

Doctor?

He stops writing and looks up at me, annoyed.

"Yes?"

Where is the clock?

"The clock?"

Yeah, I hear it ticking, but I can't seem to find it.

"We don't have a clock in here, Miles. We never did."

Oh... never mind, then.

The door opens and I stand up. Make my way over to the nurse and follow her out.


	3. Cleanup

The needle pricks my forearm, and I can't seem to look away. She pulls the plunger back and tells me to hold still. Teeth filters air lungs suck in. Loud. Pushes plunger down. Like a firecracker, warm junk crackling through my arm, traveling down my veins. Can feel it in my heart. Soon as it hits, the drug has me in it's grip. Pulls the needle out; a pool of blood replaces the area, matting fur down. Cotton swab dabbed in alcohol. Wouldn't want me to get an infection. Death would mean I no longer belong to them. Too easy a way out.

Too merciful.

"It's time for bed, now," she tells me, helping me up.

Drags me by the hand. Balance fucked off once again.

I'm a good little drone.  
A docile little drone.

Thoughts cloudy. Head swimming. Dose smaller than usual, yet still does the job.

Leads me to my room. Number matches my bracelet. 2236. Number I'll carry in my head to the grave.  
Into the shadows, she flips the switch. The ticking faintly heard. Rhythm tic with heartbeat. Head pounding.

"You know the drill," she says.

Lay down on the bed and wait to be strapped in.

No window in here. No windows anywhere. Except that office. Window in there. No bars, even. Wish I had a window. Wish I could look at the pretty birds.

Thoughts wandering.

She's buckling my wrists to the bars on either side of the bed. More like a gurney. Plastic sheets incase of unwanted urine. Easy to clean. Efficient.

Straps my legs in. Fastened snugly.  
Can't bare to look her in the face. Avert my gaze.

"Night, crybaby," speaks to herself, shutting the light off.

Door clicks shut.

Alone in the darkness.

Silence, except for the ticking.

Feel myself drifting off to sleep...

No.  
No, fight it, Miles.  
You have to.

Can't stay here another five years only to find out release is but a pipe dream.

It's up to me.

This is a test. Such as life.

Blindly struggling in my bonds, groping the bar for - aha!

Screw number one. Fingertips tightly close around it and begin twisting. No effect. Once again. Irregular metal edges digging into my fingers. Nothing. Already sore. Can't give up. Tighten, twist.

Eyes wide open, and yet I still see nothing.

Come on, Miles, don't quit on me now.

Cannot fail. Will not fail.

A book of matches comes to mind while I struggle. Can almost see it, see it in my brain. Red book with black lettering. The stench of gasoline, burning nostrils. Eyes. Skin. Fur soaked, smelly. My own voice ringing through my head over that constant ticking. Don't make me relive this.

__

Ladies and gentlemen, you have been betrayed. We have been betrayed.

People gathering all around. Tighten, twist. Metal moves with me. It begins. See the gas can being set at my feet. Twist faster. Breathe, Miles. Breathe.

__

By whom, you might be asking yourself. Simple. By the very people you entrusted with your life.

They stare, they stare hard. Trembling. Words forced. Shaky. Can't look at them. The book. Open the book to the little black paper sticks. White sulfur tips. Full book. Bought one just for the occasion.

Fingers pulling, twisting. Both hands. Each side. Remove left one, finally. One down. Tiny metal object clinks against the tile floor, as if crying out in the darkness.

Shaking. Hard.

__

There's something very wrong with the way things are being run, when we turn against one another for petty material goods. There's something severely wrong with the needless death of our brothers and sisters over something so trivial. There is something wrong with the fact that our so-called leaders do nothing but stand by and watch, laughing maniacally as they line their pockets. There is something wrong, ladies and gentlemen. Something wrong, indeed.

Second screw cries out.

Her face flashes across my mind. Both then and now. Can't hold it in, anymore. This is why she calls me crybaby.

Fingers dragging across cold metal, searching for imperfection. Key.

_I'm pretty sure there isn't a god, my friends, _my voice says loudly, striking the edge of the match against black strip on back of the book, _but if there is, I'm pretty sure I'll see you all in hell._

Was one thing I was wrong about. God is very real. Just hasn't passed the test yet.

There it is.

Flame dances with the wind, creeping it's way down the black paper betwixt gloved fingertips. Sulfur tip turns grey.

Clock is ticking louder, faster.

Trembling, sweaty fingers hard to finagle.

Tighten, twist. Tighten, twist.

Loud breath distracting. Causing anxiety. Breath shortens. Hold.

Match ignites the edge of the tips in the book. Toss lone match downwind. Crackling fire makes way across connected tips. Flame grows.

Three.

Come on, Miles.

Four.

Hyperventilating. Grasp the bar and pull, forcing it back with all my strength.

_So long, Mobius._

Metal clashes loudly against the tile. Cling tightly to the one on the right.  
Fumble with straps in the darkness.

Freedom.

Roll over, body smashing against the floor.

Numb. Okay. Scramble to my feet. Stumble through darkness. Hands flailing out before me, feeling for something, anything. The wall. Corner. Left side of the door, I think. Quiet. Ticking. Footsteps. Heartbeat. Anxiety. Footsteps closing in.

Knob turning. Audible. Door cracks, opening towards me. Flashlight focuses on the bed. Very limited time to react. Push door back, hard. Thud! Fat security guard slams against doorframe on way down. Limp hand releases light. Clatters on the floor.

Upon him. Bar in air. Bring it down. Hard. Cries out. Again. Grip searches for his windpipe to keep him quiet. Discovery. Tighten. Choking, coughing, wheezing. Bring bar down again, and again, until pig stops twitching. Target softening. Light sprinkles on my face each time bar meets his face.

Get up. Breathing hard. Still. Shocked. Heart pounding. Clock ticking. Heels clicking.  
Nurse.  
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Hold.  
Heels advancing.

Stop.

"What the..-"  
Cut her off. Around the corner. Her eyes widen. Knuckle meets her diaphragm before she can scream. Stiff form crumples to the tile floor. Gasping and sucking. Hands tightly clasped on sternum. Upon her. Hand slips red pen from her pocket. Thumb off cap. Free hand clamps over her mouth.

"Mhnnf!"

Shhhh, I say.

Red mark. Pen meets jugular. Warm, sticky liquid leaking, spraying me.  
Gurgles of protest. Muffled moans. Life drains from twitching form.  
Lifeless.

Exhale.

The end is about to begin...


	4. Knockout

"What do you make of this?"  
Fucking weasel in a white coat.  
Incompetent. Just like the rest of them.

My fists tighten. I don't respond. I just drop my cigarette butt to the tile floor and snuff it out with my foot as I make my way around the corpse of the nurse.

"The other patients have been secured?" I ask.

"Whole place is on lock down," he sighs. "Nobody's even allowed to leave their beds."

Kneel down next to the lifeless form. Pry the pen out of her neck and examine it, rolling it around between my gloved index finger and thumb.

"Make sure it stays that way until the window in the office is fixed and barred."

"This won't happen again, sir," he says. A hint of desperation in his voice. "I assure you, I-"

"I know it won't," I tell him. "But not letting it happen again doesn't change the fact that it's already happened. Get your shit together."

He shuts up and looks at his feet. I can see him out of the corner of my eye.  
Fingers grazing across the dried blood on the floor. Dark brown on hard white. A stain on perfection; something every mortal being inevitably becomes.

Time is running out.

Drop the murder weapon and turn to leave.

"Wait," he calls out to me. "What about the mess?"

"The police will be here shortly," I say, walking away. "They'll take care of it."

"Sonic," he says. "Is it true that you know the patient?"

Stop.  
Fists tightening once again. Eyes close by themselves and it takes everything in me to keep my hands from shaking.

"Yeah, I know him," I say. "I'm the one who put him in here."

* * *

It's raining.

It has been all day. Seems almost cliché, when you think about it. I try not to think about the clichés in life that surround me too much. But, it can't be helped.  
With a little luck, there will be a flood to wash all of this filth away.

Drown this whole city, and sink it to oblivion.  
Tear these insignificant termites away.  
Bleed these poor fools for all that they're worth and erase their existence.

That's what I want.  
That's what I wish for.  
That's what I pray for.

Every time I see a falling star.  
Every time it's 11:11.  
Every time I find a fallen eyelash.  
Every time I blow my candles out.

I wish for destruction.  
I wish for death.  
I wish for oblivion.  
I wish for omission.

I wish they all would die, and I could be the few, the proud standing amongst the rubble saying that I tried to save these cretins. Even though I really didn't want them to live.

This is what I am. This is what I hope for.

I take a small break under the sign of an abandoned drugstore, to light a cigarette. Watching the rain pelt hard against the empty streets, occasionally splashing against my already drenched form. It's cold, but you get used to it. You get used to what's regular.

Inhale a lungful of death due to how displeased I am with the world around me.

So, Miles Prower has escaped. The crazy fucker.  
Somehow, I always knew this would happen. He was the only person I've ever met who ever had the potential to match me in skill, speed and power. Not even Princess Sally, that cunt, but she has the manpower behind her for protection.

The insane, vengeful prick. I wonder what he's up to. I wonder what his plans are.  
I wonder what he's doing. What he's been thinking.

I did what I did because I had to. He posed a threat to the way of life I'm trying to influence upon our people. Not that I agree with Sally's current plan for us. I had higher expectations for where she's going. What she's doing. I remain disappointed.  
What this city needs isn't Sally Acorn. It's Sonic. It's me.

I am what this city needs. I have been what this city has needed all along.

Inhale and toss the burning filter into the river that has currently become of the gutter. Watch it wash away into the nearby drainpipe.

I will be where I need to be soon. Perhaps this is the push I needed to make it happen.

* * *

"Hey," the shopkeeper shouts, as he runs down the strip mall, desperately clutching his brown paper sack. Something clicks in my brain, as he takes a right down an alleyway I'm not too familiar with. It doesn't take much to catch up to him - the world turns into a blur around me until I catch up to him, grabbing him by the collar.  
His brown paper sack dropping to the floor. Cans of food spilling out of it, breaking, rolling down the desolate alleyway.  
Only you, me, a brick wall, a dumpster to my front-left. I grab you by the neck.

A scrawny cat with desperation in your eyes.

"I'm sorry," you say. "Please."

For some reason, I picture Miles in your place, and I get angry.

Hand moves from your collar to your neck.

"No, please," you say. "Stop," you choke out.

My hand tightens. Squeezes. Your hands tightly clutch mine, trying to pull it away.  
Haha.

Fist clenches around his neck, and the other hand adds to it. I bring him down to the cold, hard cement. His eyes wide, full of fear. Poor bastard doesn't even see what's coming to him.

His lips move, but he doesn't speak. They spell out I'M SORRY, but I don't have the fuck to give.

Once his eyes roll back into his head, cold and lifeless, I can't bring myself to care.  
His skin turns cold and blue, and I don't care.

I can only smile.

His eyes close, and I can't help but squeeze tighter and laugh. You're nothing to me. Just another ant I've stepped on.  
I rise above your cold, lifeless form, and my eyes drift to your paper bag. Cans outlined by the soaked brown paper that surrounded them. Too poor to buy food, too lazy to work to buy it.

I think of Miles, and where he is. What he's doing. What he has planned.

I hear the angry merchant approaching. Trying to chase down what he's lost.

As is footsteps echo close to the alleyway, I can't help but picture Miles.  
Waiting. Watching. Consuming. Becoming stronger. Faster. Better.

Before the pitiful merchant reaches the alleyway, I am gone.

I'll leave this mess for the cops to pick up.

To figure out.


End file.
